


Your Touch Is A Lie

by Dragonwithatale



Series: Leviathan Cas Shenanigans [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Choking, Dean Winchester/Castiel - Freeform, Gaslighting, Hallucination Lucifer (Supernatural) | Hallucifer, Hypothermia, I have walked off the edge of the darkfic cliff and it's nice down here, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Paralysis, Sam Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, Sam Winchester Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), bottom!Dean, free range id, mostly bottom!sam with a bit of top!sam, nothing in this fic is consensual, switch!castiel, the leviathan looks like Cas/Dean/Lucifer but is not those characters, tiny bit of body horror, which is also noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonwithatale/pseuds/Dragonwithatale
Summary: Set in s7 - Sam’s managing, mostly.  The hallucinations keep him awake, sure, but he’s functioning.  But one night they change; they get worse.  He’s used to his hallucinations of Lucifer, but not to them touching him.  Not holding him down, not like that, not anymore.Still.  No matter how bad they get, they’re just hallucinations.  Even if it’s not just Lucifer anymore, it’s only happening in Sam’s head.  Right?Author Voice - they were not in fact hallucinations.  It’s the return of the leviathan!  Why mess with one Winchester when you can mess with both?  Sam has no idea what’s going on.





	Your Touch Is A Lie

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Due to s13, Nick’s body exists somewhere at this point in canon, probably in Hell North. For the purposes of Plot, assume that this leviathan infiltrated Crowley’s court and got a taste prior to this fic.
> 
> 2) but author, you say, how come if it’s real and the leviathan isn’t using lube, Sam’s not being fucked raw every time? Because I say so and leviathans hereby can use some of their black goo as lubricant and not leave things behind that might mess with my plot. Hush and eat your cheerios.

Nothing is real.

Everything is.

Or was. Or might be.

Sam digs his thumb into his palm, chasing the sound of his own screams away, pulling himself back into his own skin by this tiny anchor of pain.

He’s on earth. He got out. Dean’s right there, asleep on the other motel bed, snoring lightly. His body is whole, mostly. Whole enough to do the job, broken enough to make sure he eventually remembers he’s living.

Sleep isn’t happening. Sam gives up without a fight, getting out of bed, quietly putting his clothes and shoes back on. He’ll go for a walk, jog a bit, see if that’s enough tonight that he can shut down. If not, he can always grab Dean a coffee too.

The night air is chilly. It’s good, it bites into Sam’s lungs as he quickens his pace along the empty alleys, cuts through the static of unreality that dances in his body. Their motel is definitely on the seedier side of town; barbwire on fences, broken street lights, refuse everywhere, but tonight the normal drifters and lurkers are elsewhere. Sam walks alone, vaguely marking his route in the back of his mind. He walks as quietly as he can.

“Out for a little night air?” Lucifer is waiting around the next corner, leaning comfortably against the filthy wall. Sam jumps, flinching away at the sudden noise. “I gotta tell ya Sammy, you’re not taking real good care of yourself.”

Can’t hurt you, Sam. He’s not real. Sam keeps his eyes averted, focusing on the road ahead.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” Lucifer follows along, keeping just behind Sam, where flickers of him come in and out of sight. “We used to have fun together and now you’re just cutting me out. Do I need to get you flowers? How bout dinner, I’ll buy you dinner.”

Sam walks faster. He can’t get away, he knows he can’t; the devil travels at the speed of thought, as quick inside Sam’s mind as if he were here with those dark wings spread out behind him.

“Then again I don’t have money. Hey, if I blow you will you give me a twenty?”

Sam closes his eyes for a fatal second, skin crawling at the memory of Lucifer’s tongue, his hands, his— he trips on a pothole and goes sprawling, landing on his belly in a puddle of... something. It’s soaking into his pants, a chilly counterpoint to the burning scrapes on his cheek and hands and knees.

“Fuck.” Sam lies there for a second trying to catch his breath. Can’t he have one normal day? Just a few hours.

“You know, that’s a good idea, Sammy.” Two brown shoes come into sight as Lucifer crouches in front of Sam, and Sam freezes, barely breathing. He’s too exposed Lucifer can do anything _ he’s not really here Sam get your sorry ass up. _ “I’d recommend cleaning up first, you’re kinda skanky, but you should get laid, man.”

He pushes up to his feet, and maybe he’s pushing away from Lucifer too but he’s not going to admit that. The more he interacts and reacts to the hallucinations the more they can do.

“You really should be more careful Sammy,” comes from the other direction. Sam turns and Lucifer is right behind him, not even a foot away.

“Ooo seeing double, that’s not good,” comes from the first Lucifer and god what is happening, the hallucinations have never split before. “I think you did a little brain damage there. Unless you have a twin fantasy you never told me about.”

Sam clenches his jaw to keep from snapping at him — them. He’ll go grab coffee from the gas station a block from the motel and get changed and start doing research. There’s gotta be a case around here somewhere.

“Ignoring your friends isn’t nice.” The Lucifers keep pace as he heads back, flanking him, herding him almost. He walks faster. “Cmon, talk to me. Sam, you’re covered in blood, you really gonna just walk around like this?”

Sam checks - he can’t help it really, even though he knows better - and there’s dark patches coming through his jeans from his knees, and a wet spot on his cheek. He should change and then get coffee...

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“Oh that’s a good idea. I like that idea,” one Lucifer says, glancing appreciatively at his other self. Sam makes a wrong turn, not paying enough attention to his feet for the second time tonight. The short alley is blocked with chainlink. He huffs, angry at himself, then the breath leaves him as he’s shoved forward into the metal links.

“I said don’t ignore me.” Before he can catch his breath Lucifer is pressing up behind him, cold body pinning him in place. He can’t get his hands together, can’t press the scar, and he panics, pushing back weakly, fighting against thin air that feels way too solid. One shove brings Sam’s ass against Lucifer’s crotch, against a very hard dick. He’s enjoying this, he always enjoys this, he’s letting Sam fight and then- then- Sam’s hyperventilating and Lucifer hushes him, one hand stroking his hair, pinning his head against the fence without much force, so Sam can just see him out of the corner of his eye. He goes limp, Lucifer can crush his skull, has done it if Sam doesn’t behave doesn’t spread doesn’t obey _ he’s not really here he’s not real oh god please he’s not really here. _

Lucifer kisses his cheek gently where it’s cut, and Sam sees him licking away the blood from his lips, savoring the taste. “See?” he says. “All better now.”

Lucifer pets his hair again, tucking a few stray strands back behind Sam’s ear. And then he’s gone. When Sam looks back the alley is empty. It’s just him, all alone, scared shitless by his own mind, jumping at fucking shadows. None of it is real. He just has to remember that, believe it. Trust it the way he can’t trust anything else.

It’s a hard walk, going back to the motel. The quiet is ominous now. It feels like something’s watching.

* * *

Another bad night, another long walk, and Sam’s bone weary. Tired enough to sleep, hopefully. He’s pulling the motel keys from his pocket, almost to the room, when Lucifer walks around the corner, smiling in that horribly intimate way he has. “Hiya Sammy.” Sam shoves past him, around the corner to the room, fumbling with the lock. “Aww, we’re doing this again?” Lucifer crowds right up to him, brushing a hand along his back. “Come on Sam, you have to talk to me eventually.”

He really doesn’t. Sam shoves the door closed, locking it, leaning his head against the flimsy wood. He’s not real. He can’t break it down. He can just appear inside, of course, but the small things are what Sam can cling to right now.

He gets ready for bed, shoving his clothes in a pile, brushing his teeth fast; clinging to the fatigue, letting that wash over the fear. And it works. He checks Dean’s snoring form — drunken snoring, jesus Dean really? That’s every night this week — and climbs beneath his own blankets, burying his face in his pillow. He lets sleep fall over him, surrendering and letting go the way he can’t during the day.

It’s still dark out, halogen light slipping past the curtains to lim the room in dying amber, when something pinches at Sam’s neck. It pulls him half awake, blinking blearily at the vague outlines, and then he comes all the way awake when he can’t sit up. It’s like he’s buried in concrete, he can barely twitch his fingers. He can’t move he can’t run. He can’t scream; his calls to Dean are merely a whistling breath of panic.

“I miss you.” A chilly body drapes itself over his back, legs twining with his own, and Lucifer rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder so his breath ghosts across Sam’s cheek. “We never used to be apart, and now you won’t even look at me. Don’t you remember how good it was? Being together?”

It’s just a bad dream. It’s a nightmare just breathe just breathe. But he can’t, there’s not enough air in the room, it smells like rust and ruin, every rapid breath pulling the air of the Cage into his lungs. Lucifer places a chaste kiss under his ear, nuzzles at his hair.

“My Sammy. My perfect Sam, made for me.” 

He knows what will happen next, what always happens when he starts like this. Lucifer strokes and pets him, gently, softly, taking every inch of Sam as his own. Kisses his fingertips, along his spine; turns him over and carefully pulls his boxers down, letting the air cool his skin as he licks and nibbles at Sam’s inner thighs, kisses his limp dick. And Sam lies there, a statue, as Lucifer takes him into his mouth and sucks and licks until Sam starts chubbing up.

He said yes to this. He let the devil wrap around his mind, agreed to give him full control, give him everything for a gamble to save the world; and the outcome he’d hoped for was this. He chose to fall into hell with this living darkness in his soul, to be with Lucifer forever. ‘No’ doesn’t count after that. ‘Stop’ is a joke. ‘Please’ is just begging for more. Lucifer had told him so many times and he was right, Sam agreed, he said yes. He said yes.

Lucifer is patient, working Sam to the brink and holding him there. Helpless, unable to beg, unable to writhe, unable to fight, Sam can only pant and fix his eyes on the ceiling, trace the cracks hanging above him. The forked tongue flicks into Sam’s slit and he chokes, clawing motionlessly at the bed. Tears blur his eyes; the cracks in ceiling swim overhead, bleeding red light, dripping screams that cannot drown out the small satisfied noises Lucifer makes as Sam finally comes.

Lucifer crawls up to kiss him, delving deep into his slack mouth, and the taste of his own spunk is nauseating. He didn’t want this. He said yes but he didn’t want this and eternity is so long. _ Please God, if you’re out there, let me die. Let him kill me, let it stick, let it end. _

A hand clamps over Sam’s mouth and nose. He can’t fight, he doesn’t want to, he lets the darkness rush over him.

He wakes up. Curled over on his side, early morning light pushing past the drapes, and it’s real. He’s not in the Cage, he’s alive. On earth. He sits up, almost dizzy with relief, and freezes. His boxers are damp, coated with drying spunk, clinging to his thighs and dick. He makes it to the toilet in time to throw up.

The shower doesn’t help.

* * *

The fifth time it happens is after a hunt. Both brothers had collapsed when they returned to their dirty little motel room, too tired to clean up. Sam wakes up paralyzed again, which isn’t getting easier. Even though he researched, even though he knows nightmares and sleep paralysis happen with ptsd, there’s nothing he can do.

There’s nothing he can do as Lucifer flips him onto his back, aggressive this time, practically tearing Sam’s clothes off. Nothing he can do as Lucifer nips and claws at the wounds left by the werewolf earlier, drawing fresh blood that he savors. Nothing he can do as his legs are shoved up and wide and Lucifer rubs his dick teasingly beneath Sam’s balls. Just stare at the ceiling and breathe; try not to hyperventilate.

Lucifer pauses, frowning. “I’m not boring you, am I Sam?”

Bored is not the adjective Sam would ever choose for being raped. Even as a dream, or a hallucination, or whatever the fuck this is.

“Let’s do something new.” Lucifer sits back on his heels and... changes. Blond hair shifts to a familiar windswept brown, and it’s Cas’ blue eyes boring into Sam’s, Cas crouched between his legs with his dick curved up towards his stomach. He smiles, soft and empty. “Hello Sam.”

The breath leaves Sam’s body. Cas. Fuck he’d never... he hadn’t dared even pull up one of their few pictures of him after the lake, not with Dean’s silent rage, the way he shut down every mention of their friend. He’d never thought to see him again. The grief and hope and pain have time to bloom and then Cas is lining himself up and shoves forward, splitting Sam open with one thrust and burying himself with a hungry groan.

No. _ No_. Cas is warm, is hot after Lucifer, his hands burn as he shifts Sam around, bending his legs up to his chest for better access. And Sam’s body is just as lax, just as pliant, just as fucking _ welcoming _ beneath him.

“Fuck,” he pulls out a little and slams back in, jolting Sam up the bed, “you feel so good.”

And it does. God help him it does. The pace this nightmare angel sets is brutal, each thrust like to break Sam in half; but it’s Cas, not Lucifer. Cas has broken him once, and saved him a hundred times, and he’s still scared and he wants to run he wants to be anywhere else. But Cas has never killed him; never burned the eyes from his head. And he feels like he’s alive, his breath sticky hot against Sam’s skin. So Sam’s body reacts the way it’s been trained; skin flushing, cock filling out and twitching eagerly, as if he actually wanted this. The times Cas slows and bends forward to kiss him, filthy and claiming and too full of tongue, his lips are left tingling. Sam comes first, sobbing quietly the whole while. And Cas slows, barely moving inside him, gently brushes the hair back from his face.

“So perfect for me,” he says with something akin to awe. Part of Sam craves the praise; once upon a time he’d have done anything to hear an angel say he was good. That he wasn’t a monster. And Castiel’s first words had been ‘the boy with the demon blood’, but he hadn’t flinched away.

Part of Sam knows it’s still the devil under that mask. It’s his own memories of Hell. His own mind pulling up his dearest friend and painting him over the darkness; maybe, so that if he has to be raped over and again at least it’s someone who once upon a time loved him. And here he didn’t think he could sink any lower; didn’t believe there was enough left that his heart could break into smaller pieces still.

Cas is still hard inside him, still rocking gently, and Sam feels his own dick showing interest again. Which is wrong, it’s just once it’s always just once fuck did he mess up? Did he enjoy it enough that the hallucination could grow stronger? _ Shit shit shit. _ “There was a moment I considered this,” Cas says softly, “when I became God. When I ordered you to bow. Keeping both of you, letting you worship me.” He thrusts harder here, as if Sam had any doubt what he meant. “Every angel in heaven already thought I was fucking one of you. Or both.” He shudders deeper into Sam, picking up more speed, more power. “I was so fond of my humans I had to be spreading for you every time you called.”

It’s just a dream. Cas wouldn’t have done that. He was so cold and distant that day, infinity pulled down into the finite, a maelstrom of righteousness that had no use for humanity.

Cas smirks. “You think I’m lying. I considered it. When I rebelled, when I Fell. When I was alone fighting a war and I had nothing. I would have come to either of you and begged. I would have done anything to be less alone. But neither of you ever thought I needed help. Both too broken to love anyone else.”

Doubt unfurls inside Sam, and it grows with every memory of the last two years, thorns of guilt cutting into his soul. They’d never even thought to ask.

Cas bends over him again, inches away, so they’re breathing the same air. “I died trying to save you. And you let me.”

It’s not true none of it is true, the hallucinations lie all the time just breathe, breathe Sam. Cas sits back and starts fucking him earnestly, and Sam lets his mind go, just existing in the sensations, the now comfortable stretch around Cas’ cock, the raw drag of each movement, the pounding of his heart and each breath. He can feel his orgasm building, again, when Cas reaches down and starts stroking Sam’s neglected dick, hard and dirty and if Sam could fuck up into it he would. He’s there, he’s tipping towards the edge, and Cas moves his hand down and squeezes Sam’s balls hard, way too hard it hurts fuck-

Sam blacks out.

It’s the grey of early morning when he comes to. Same as every single fucking time, lying how he was when he fell asleep, covered in his own spunk. He does the now routine stagger to the toilet to retch up the little food he ate yesterday. Strips everything off and climbs in the shower. And stands there. His ass feels sore; which, so does most of the rest of his body. He digs his thumb into the meat of his palm. He thinks the other pain fades a little.

He lets the water run tepid as he scrubs at everything, knowing he’s not going to feel clean.

* * *

The bed shifts behind him, sinking with the weight of a body as someone slips under the covers. The hand that tugs down his sweatpants is warm, so it’s Castiel tonight. Sam is trying desperately to keep the two separate: Cas is his friend. Cas wouldn’t do this. Castiel is the hallucination, his nighttime companion.

Soft lips press against the back of Sam’s neck. A hot cock slides against his ass, presses up and slowly in. Warm fingers wrap firmly around Sam’s dick.

“My beautiful Sam,” is whispered against his skin. And then nothing. He can feel every breath against his skin, every inch of Castiel’s body lined up with his, but he doesn’t move.

Just lies there. Warm and steady and in another life comforting. Sam shivers and watches Dean snore in the other bed. He still tells himself it’s not real but it doesn’t help. He drifts off eventually. Morning is the same as it always is. 

Nausea. Shower. Pretend.

* * *

Dean shoves his fries across the diner table to Sam, who’s still picking at his salad, pretending that the blood he’s seeing and tasting is the shittiest dressing he’s ever had.

“You need to eat,” he says. 

Sam can hear fear layered under it, see it haunting Dean’s eyes. He looks at the fries, slightly nauseated by the oily smell, then shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. You’ve dropped at least twenty pounds in the past month.”

“I’m _ fine_.” He‘d had to buy new clothes to replace what had been ruined in hunts. He didn’t think Dean had noticed the size change.

“Sam please. If there’s something I can do…” Dean fiddles with the edge of his plate, tapping his fingernails in an irritating staccato. “We don’t have to eat places like this. We can go anywhere.”

“It’s not the food.” He stabs a leaf and stares at it, twisting it back and forth on the fork. That might be a piece of skin.

“Then what.” Dean leans forward, and Lucifer reaches over from his sprawl next to the window to put his fingers up like bunny ears behind Dean’s head. “You said you would tell me this stuff. I just want to help.”

“It’s…”

“Come on Sam, tell little bunny foo foo here the truth. Tell him you’re fucking his best friend while he sleeps in the next bed.”

Sam drops the fork to stab his thumb as deep as he can into his palm. Lucifer flickers out, pouting, and the salad goes back to plain old lettuce and veggies covered in vinaigrette. And Dean only gets more worried looking.

“I’m managing, honestly.” He forces himself to take a bite, swallowing around the lingering taste of copper. “Just having some weird dreams. It’s no big deal.”

“Sam—“

“Look, I’d tell you if there was anything you could do to help. It’s just Lucifer being Lucifer.” Sam pushes his food around as Dean processes that. “I’ll try to remember to eat more, okay? Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Bitch.” Dean’s lips twitch, hiding a smile. Sam reaches over and steals a fry. He has to choke to swallow it.

“Jerk.”

* * *

They split up for a bit. Everything with Amy… Sam knows his judgement is screwed up right now, but Dean hiding shit like that — it’s hard enough to deal with everything in his head, but when his one constant, the one thing he’s supposed to be able to trust, when that’s the thing that’s fucking with his head and changing reality without saying anything…

So Sam leaves. It’s hardly the first time he’s hunted alone, and sadly enough it’s not the first time Lucifer was his ghostly companion while estranged with Dean. What a fucking life.

And if he takes slightly less care of himself without Dean looking worried all the time, that’s Sam’s business. He still eats, he sleeps eventually. For a little while that actually helps; sleeping every other day, collapsing for a short while just before dawn, and the nightmares sort of vanish. Until they don’t.

Sam falls asleep doing research. Lays his head down for a second at the tiny kitchen table. He wakes up boneless, leaned back, with Castiel straddling him and the chair, cock out and rubbing across his lips.

“You’re absolutely right, I haven’t been using your mouth properly. Such a good boy, thinking of this.”

Sam _ panics_. The world is already starting to grey out as Castiel pulls his mouth open and slides in, hot and heavy across his tongue, moaning happily until Sam’s nose is pressed into his pubic hair. And he can’t breathe. It’s in too deep his air is cut off he can’t breathe and Castiel stays there, rolling his hips gently without ever pulling back far enough for Sam to inhale.

“Fuck, just like that,” Castiel hisses as Sam’s lungs struggle to pull in air, heaving. He grabs Sam’s hair with both hands and just as the world is going black he tugs Sam back. Sweet air rushes in, pulling Sam back from the dark, and then Castiel fucks his mouth and shoves back in all the way, staying there as Sam fades.

And he does it again. And again. Sam’s head is buzzing, every inch of his body tingling, and nothing is real here. He barely realizes when Castiel pulls out and comes across his face. Or when Castiel drops out of sight and Sam feels his dick being pulled free, incredibly hard, and warm lips wrap around him and suck until he’s coming.

He wakes up facedown on the table in a puddle of drool, sweatpants beginning to crust.

Every nightmare until he’s back with Dean is the same thing, wherever he sleeps. Having Castiel finally go back to using his ass is more than half the reason Sam forgives Dean and stays.

* * *

Castiel is vocal tonight, full of whispered praise and ecstatic cries, soft sweet little “ah ah AH” sounds that belong more in a porno than a dark cabin in the backwoods of Minnesota. He’s kept one hand on the back of Sam’s neck the entire time, pinning him facedown on the bed as he’s worked himself through three orgasms already. Sam can make Dean out in the next bed, the curve of a shoulder caught in the light of a halfmoon. It helps. Dean would wake up if there were actually danger, he sleeps on a hair trigger even full of whiskey.

Even though Sam can feel the come dripping down his balls onto the bed, even though the air is swimming with the smell of sex, it isn’t real. If he keeps breathing he will get through this. It’s just another nightmare.

Castiel snaps his hips forward one more time and shudders inside Sam. That makes four. Sam’s own cock is trapped against his stomach, painfully hard but nowhere near coming. Castiel kisses his shoulders as slowly his cock softens and slips out of Sam. Maybe that’s enough, maybe this can be over.

Castiel reaches under Sam, fingers barely brushing against his erection. “Still not satisfied?” Lips brush against his ear. “I could ride you, would you like that? Stuff that big cock inside me, drive it so deep I’ll never be the same.”

Dean mumbles in his sleep, hands twitching. Sam can’t look away, but he feels Castiel rest his cheek against Sam’s head, looking over at Dean.

“I suppose I could give you a little show.”

_ What? _Castiel gets up and carefully slides another pillow under Sam’s head. Then he takes Sam’s hand and slips it under his body to wrap loosely around his own dick. And Castiel smiles in the dark before he saunters over to Dean’s bed, stroking himself as he goes.

He takes his time, peeling back the sheets, straightening Dean out on the bed, teasing down his sweatpants. Dean mumbles again and tries lifting his head, moving his limbs weakly. And then Castiel is kissing him, cradling his face lovingly.

“Hello Dean.” Sam can hear Castiel lick his hand, see him reach down to start stroking Dean.

“Cas? The hell - ah!” Dean’s hips jerk up off the bed. ”You. You're dead.”

“I’m right here, Dean.” Castiel straddles his brother, bending forward to claim his mouth. Sam can hear how filthy the kiss is.

“_You_.” Dean’s scared. Oh Dean’s terrified, thrashing as weak as a kitten trying to get Castiel off of him. Castiel laughs and pins him easily, sliding Dean’s legs open and fitting between them like he belongs. Sam doesn’t want to watch this. He shuts his eyes, chanting _ it’s not real _ over and over in his mind.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Castiel rumbles, and Dean is saying no again and again. Sam feels pinpricks behind his eyelids as the tears start. One more nightmare. Dean is fine. Dean is sleeping peacefully in his bed. Sam’s just fucked up in the head.

“I’ve been thinking about this for years, Dean. Ever since I pulled you out of hell, I’ve wanted to take you apart.” The familiar sound of skin sliding against skin fills the air, punctuated with Castiel’s honesty _ delighted _ moans and Dean groaning like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Gonna fucking kill you.” Castiel laughs at that, and then murmurs something too low for Sam to understand. And Dean is quiet. Sam only knows he’s there from his breathing, from the small moans that steal out. He knows his brother from a lifetime in motel rooms, and he knows Castiel, so he can hear each one building towards their orgasms. The little high pitched whine that Dean always gets in his voice right before he comes. The little “oh!” cries that mean Castiel is lost.

Dean is first. Sam can hear the broken hitch in his breath after as his brother lies there and Castiel finishes taking what he wants. Sam knows better than to let Castiel see his eyes closed now that the “show” is over, so he looks. Castiel is sprawled comfortably on Dean’s chest, panting as he traces faint lines across Dean’s skin. And Dean is just… staring at the ceiling. He’s as pliant as Sam is forced to be when Castiel takes one last kiss, opening easily, surrendering everything.

Castiel strokes Dean’s cheek fondly before he gets up. “Be good, Dean. Stay.”

He’s gone. Sam lies there in the dark watching Dean, and Dean lies there watching nothing. Sam closes his eyes again. Nothing happened, Dean is fine. Dean is fine.

* * *

Dean is unusually quiet the next morning, distant as he packs up their things. He managed to dig up a case before Sam was even awake, so Sam half eats a powerbar — he doesn’t want to but Dean keeps checking on him — and gets a move on.

Halfway to Maine Dean pulls over in a tiny town so they can swap cars. It’s a little odd, they only just stole this one, but right now they’re living on paranoia. The Leviathans are everywhere, watching everything with a surveillance network that puts hell and heaven both to shame.

Sam slings the last bag of guns into the trunk of their new ride, an old offwhite Pontiac LeMans. Dean brings over the last thing, face blank as his fingers grip the fabric of Cas’ old coat. It’s been an unspoken thing for months, sitting in the dark corners like one of the few momentos they have of Mom and Dad.

Sam knows he’s breaking the rules, but — “I miss him. Cas.” And somehow that’s still true with the past few months. He misses his friend, misses his calm presence, his advice, his weird little jokes, the utterly dry sarcasm underlying half of what he said.

Dean shoves the coat somewhere out of sight and slams the trunk door before saying tersely, “He’s gone.”

“I know. But I still wish he were here.” 

“Yeah well, he’s not. He made his choices, which included fucking you over in case you forgot.”

“I know that.” Like Sam could forget when Lucifer was in the street trying to direct traffic with a severed human arm. “Of course I know that. But he was our friend. I don’t think he wanted any of this to happen."

“Fuck what he wanted,” Dean snaps.

“Dean…”

“No, get in the car,” Dean stabs a finger in the direction of Sam’s door. “We’ve got a ghost to burn and then we’re going back to killing some fucking leviathans, got it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

* * *

Two weeks. Two goddamn fucking weeks of being edged all night while they’re stuck in this nowhere town on a dead end hunt. Sam is this close to losing it; his body is craving an orgasm, wanting anything and everything, and it’s not happening. 

For one thing, Castiel and Lucifer are both enjoying it too much. There’s something entirely disconcerting about having the devil jacking off next to you in bed or humping the mattress with complete abandon while an angel tortures you with sex.

He tries taking things into his own hands. Dean goes out to get food for them both, and Sam gets into the shower. Turns the water on hot, cleans himself quickly. Grabs the soap again and slicks up and just…

The water is pounding down on his back; he can feel the itch under his skin, the lowgrade arousal that makes each halfhearted stroke feel good, and his mind is repeating _ I don’t want this _louder and louder in an almost manic tone. He ignores it; rubs the sensitive spots, does long strokes from base to tip, and he has never been less interested in sex in his life even with his body urging him on. He stops. He has to, it’s stop or give in to the nausea and the urge to hide himself, run and get away.

He shuts the water off, gets dressed. Picks at his dinner, moving things around so Dean thinks he’s eating something. Considers from every angle the fact that he may be completely fucked in the head. He gets off when Lucifer touches him. When Castiel does it he even feels good. His hallucinations can fuck him into coming until it goddamn hurts, and he can’t even hold his own dick.

They pass the evening quietly, Sam flipping through books while Lucifer plays checkers, Dean glaring at his computer, until neither of them can focus any more.

Sam stretches out on his back and stares at the ceiling. Waiting.

Accepting the inevitable isn’t the same as accepting the act, is it?

Castiel ghosts across his bare skin in the dark, teasing and tweaking and building Sam towards a wave that never crests. Lets him rest, breathe, settle, slips a finger inside to stretch and rub and tease. Sits back on his heels to stroke himself as Sam shudders helplessly, twitching against the sheets.

His mind isn’t screaming for him to run anymore. There’s no panicked voice saying no.

Castiel kisses him, stealing away his breath, and then settles back across his hips. Grinds slowly back and forth until Sam is sobbing and stills, patient as a boulder until he’s calm. Takes Sam in hand and lifts himself up and settles down, inching Sam’s cock into his body, until Sam is buried in heat and Castiel is whimpering above him, giving tiny helpless jerks of his own.

“Should have done this,” he pants, “years ago.” Years ago they were friends. Years ago the worst monster in Sam’s mind was himself; so maybe not that much has changed after all.

Castiel moves slowly, figuring out how to swivel his hips right, how to lift and sink back down so Sam is hitting a sweet spot inside his body that’s wrecking him. “Ah! _ Shit_. Should have tied me up. Down in that basement. Stuffed me so full of cock I couldn’t think anymore.”

_ No. _ No, Sam wouldn’t… Sam would never have done that. He couldn’t. _ Forcing _ himself on Castiel, on his friend, on an _ angel _…

“Keep me so full I wouldn’t want… nnn… wouldn’t want anything else, wouldn’t want Leviathans in me.”

_ But you could have, Sam. You without a soul wouldn’t have thought twice if it were the greatest good. Hell, you’d have enjoyed it: making Cas writhe and beg. Making him happy. _

Castiel is lost, chasing his own high, riding Sam with abandon; his hands trace over his own body, pinching at his nipples, caressing his cock, fingers slipping into his mouth with a wanton moan. “They were in me so deep, Sam, moving under my skin, _ pressing_. Thrusting to get out. Kept me so high, but I was still… fuck, Sam, there _ there!” _ Castiel keeps moving, thighs shaking as he fucks himself through his orgasm to the other side, until Sam can see tears falling down his face. He finally slows, moving just a touch, just enough to keep Sam on edge. Sam is _ so close_. “I was still empty. Needed this.”

Sam’s body is singing and his mind is made of mist, thoughts slipping together and apart and away. He wants to come. He wants Cas to stop. He wants to fuck up into him, flip him over and _ take. _He wants to take Dean’s gun and blow his own brains out so this will end.

He wants it to end.

Castiel soothes him. Leans forward to stroke his hair, tangle his fingers and tug carefully; kiss him between panting breaths.

“I need you. I would do anything, Sam.”

_ Then stop. _

But Sam lies mute as Castiel finally moves and lets him slide over the edge, more into pain than pleasure.

Whatever he wants, it isn’t this.

* * *

It’s two or three times a week now, almost always Castiel. Sam has found a few patterns, so it’s becoming routine. He’s managing, sort of. Dean’s not been doing well, drinking for the record, clinging like Sam’s all he has left when he’s not guns blazing on the hunt. Which is true, with Bobby dead — Sam is all he has left.

He’s found a list of safe foods too, things less likely to trigger episodes of “my life is a horror story.” It’s a delicate balance all in all, but Dean stops worrying so much. He actually laughed again the other night after those fucking clowns, and it was worth everything to hear that.

So when Dean finds a hunt with demon fingerprints all over it, it seems like another Tuesday. Unfinished business of the worst kind, but at least it’s different from the months after Sam got his soul back. They did it right this time; they know the patterns, they have help. It should be simple.

Until it’s not.

Until Dean goes missing.

He’s the only thing Sam has, the only anchor, the only friend, the only _ sanity. _So he says yes.

He listens to the devil. Lets those dark wings shadow over him and nudge him to where Dean is. And he gets there on time, Dean is alive.

Lucifer is there, though. Has his hooks in Sam’s soul, and he has everything now. Sam can’t use pain to make him flicker fade away, because Lucifer has fire and ice and all the pain he wants while Sam is awake now.

One more line crossed, one more fight lost, and Sam doesn’t know how many of those are left.

Going for the usual night walk is a disaster. Sam is burning alive with every step for miles, Lucifer singing delightedly in tempo to his steps as he leaves the memory of seared flesh in the air as he goes. He’s a walking corpse, a ghost escaped from his grave, a nightmare in charring skin.

Castiel is waiting around the last corner, in the dark parking lot just outside of civilization’s light. He grabs Sam by the jacket and slams him into the wall, and his hands are everywhere and they’re blessedly cool and Sam forgets that he’s supposed to fight. Stands there with his fingers clawing at the brick at his back as Castiel plunders his mouth, licking greedily in, and Sam welcomes it. Cold fingers slide beneath his shirts and this is heaven as they caress his skin, rub up across his chest.

“I’ve been _ waiting _ for this,” Castiel says. Sam sobs as Castiel abandons his chest to the fire and slips his hands down to undo his pants, and Sam’s past caring if his hips come away from the wall as Cas wraps icy fingers around his dick.

“_ Please _” is all he can gasp out. Not ‘I’ll do anything’ not ‘more’. Please. And Cas smiles empty and pleasant and wild.

“Would you worship me, Sam Winchester?”

Sam nods, biting his lip to keep from screaming as Cas lets go and takes his hands away.

“I need you to say yes.”

“Yes,” Sam sobs.

Cas kisses his forehead and pushes Sam down to kneel on the asphalt. Sam knows what comes next, knows how Lucifer played this game, so he uses shaking burning fingers to carefully take Cas’ cock out of his slacks. He worships with his tongue and lips and hands, and Castiel keeps his hands on Sam, wrapped loosely in his hair as he bobs, and the pain dulls.

It takes a lifetime before Cas takes control away from Sam, holding his head still as he fucks his mouth hard and comes with a final shudder. Sam swallows as best he can; what dribbles down his chin is soothing, numbing almost. He looks up at Castiel, keeping his hands on his thighs. The pain is manageable now, but he knows that’s dependent on Castiel’s mood.

Cas smiles and pets Sam’s hair. “My perfect little slut.” Sam looks down, tears burning brighter than his skin. He hears Castiel’s footsteps leaving, and then he’s alone in the dark.

He said yes.

* * *

Four nights later, a midnight run that turned into a brutal fuck in the dirt on the side of the road, and Sam is watching his sanity wash down the shower drain. There’s blood in the water, from an assault that didn’t happen. Because Castiel is dead and Lucifer isn’t here and there’s blood trickling down his thighs. He can feel it all still, every fingerprint, every time Cas slammed in. There’s cuts from rocks and twigs in his hair and his own grunts and whimpers are echoing in his ears.

He can’t tell.

It feels real.

Do you need to wash away blood that’s only in your mind? _ Can _ you wash away dirt and filth that’s on the inside? In the end, it doesn’t matter. He still fell down somewhere. Dean doesn’t need to worry, or complain about him smelling funny.

He lathers up. Cleans his hair first, scrubs down his too-thin body while the conditioner sets. Leans under the spray with his eyes closed to rinse everything off and freezes as he feels two hands tracing the skin of his back, coming to rest tightly on his hips. He already… earlier…

He obeys when Cas tells him to put his hands on the wall. Moves his legs wider. Breathes, too fast and hard, watching the water swirling away. Bites down on a scream as Cas shoves in, the pain somehow worse than earlier as he sets the same brutal pace. Blood swirls down the drain, faint red on white tile turning everything pink as the scent of copper fills his nose.

His heartbeat pounding in his ears can’t drown out the slap of skin against skin. The water pouring warm over his head is a twisted and perfect counterpoint to the heat of Cas behind him, inside him, the warmth of his hand as he reaches around and coaxes Sam’s very uninterested dick to full hardness.

He’s held there, pinned between unwelcome pleasure and unwanted pain for what feels like hours. Cas finally drives them both over the edge, pulling a pathetic orgasm from Sam’s body before his own hips stutter and still.

“Perfect,” Cas says, mouthing the words into Sam’s shoulder as he pulls out, “so perfect for me. Sleep well, Sam.”

Sam watches the water swirling as he gradually grows colder under the spray. He ends up on his knees somehow, staring blankly as the tiles fade back to white.

* * *

Sam is holding on by an ever-thinning thread. The line between sleeping and waking is gone, and he can’t tell anything anymore. And it terrifies him how much worse everything is. There are marks on his skin now, bruises and cuts and blood. Nothing is real, not the cars crossing the road not the cashier at the gas station. But all of it can hurt him.

Two weeks since Jeffrey, since Sam gave in and washed the lines away and broke himself into pieces for Dean. He barely sleeps, drifting off to be tortured awake by one or the other of his evil angels.

He survives the cursed objects by the magic power of coffee, but he’s slow and the ghoul manages to slice him open in a few places, nasty deep gashes that have a ridiculously high chance of getting infected.

That’s what makes him finally cave.

Before, the nights after a hunt were bad. Castiel would pull out stitches and glide his fingers through the wounds, licking the blood away like some sick vampire. Or Sam’s joints would be wrenched out of place, and his bruises would be darker. Those nights only ended when Sam passed out from the pain.

Now he thinks the pain might kill him. There’s two things he can think of, and he knows whiskey and pain meds is a crapshoot.

When Dean is brushing his teeth and Sam is wrapping up the last bandage, Sam asks quietly if he can sleep in Dean’s bed tonight. He hates how small his voice sounds when he asks. Like he’s some broken fragile child trying to hide behind his big brother. But he knows, he _ knows _ tonight is going to be torture. And he can’t do it, he can’t.

Dean finishes brushing, spits and rinses, and Sam’s about to tell him to forget it and take the higher dose of drugs once his brother’s asleep when he says “of course.”

So Sam ends up in Dean’s bed, curled against his chest the way they used to do when they were small, with Dean wrapped around him, protecting him from the world. He can feel how tense Dean is, can tell he’s worried, but they’re both too tired to stay awake long.

Dean kisses him awake, slipping into his mouth like he belongs there. Sam thinks it’s Castiel again, at first, but it tastes wrong; like mint and a chaser of whiskey. Dean finally comes up for air and the light from outside catches across his face, and Sam just… slides away. This isn’t happening; it’s not Dean on top of him. It isn’t Sam below. He’s not here. It’s just his body, it’s not him.

Dean puts Sam’s limp hands above his head and starts kissing and licking his way down Sam’s body, carefully stripping Sam as he goes. He’s reverent, loving, lavishing attention on every part, using every bit of skill he’s gained over the years to worship Sam. He wraps those cocksucker lips around Sam and bobs and sucks until Sam is hard, and then he shucks off his sleep pants and pulls his shirt slowly over his head and straddles Sam. He bends over to kiss Sam again and Sam is gone, Sam is far away, Sam isn’t the one who sees the black eyes. The one who tastes sulphur, who feels blood dripping onto his skin from where Dean’s chest is shredded and his heart lies still.

“You have no idea how much I love you, little brother,” he croons. He sits back, bracing one hand on Sam’s thigh while the other grasps Sam’s aching dick guides it into place. He slowly lowers himself down, head tipped back in ecstasy. “You have no idea what I’d do for you.”

It’s hot and tight inside his brother’s body as Dean moves, fucking himself with small cries of pleasure. “Love you so much, Sammy. Need you. Need you just like this.” Dean’s cock is bouncing with every thrust. Eventually his movement shifts Sam enough that his head falls to the side, and Dean is _ there _ too, sleeping quietly beside him, curled up and peaceful.

Dean yanks Sam’s head back up. “I did fucking _ everything _ for you I went to _ hell_, the least you can do is _ look at me. _”

Sam watches blindly, frozen as Dean milks an orgasm from his still body and then jerks himself off, spilling hot come all over Sam’s skin. He sits there panting for a minute and then he comes up to kiss Sam again. Something makes him frown, pulling back to look critically at Sam’s face. He grabs a pillow and puts it down over Sam’s face, holding him in the stifling dark.

Distantly, Sam hopes it kills him.

Dean shakes his shoulder to wake him in the morning, and jumps back when Sam flails awake, rolling across the bed to get away. “Woah woah there tiger, take it easy. It’s nine am, time to up an at em.”

Dean’s going to— he’s—

“Sam, breathe, take a deep breath, it’s just me.”

The door to the bathroom is right there and Sam edges towards it, keeping his back to the wall. Dean stays where he is, hands kept low, looking scared out of his mind. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Stay back.” Two more feet. Dean takes a step back and Sam has his hand on the knob and he slams the door shut, sliding down to the bathroom tiles. He bites the palm of his hand to keep from screaming or sobbing, he can’t tell which. Reality stays solid around him, but it always does now.

“Sam? You at least want some clean clothes?” Dean’s voice is still distant. It’s his brother. He wouldn’t… he won’t… Sam is shaking and all the strong words and self recriminations can’t make him open the door or answer.

“... I’m gonna leave your bag here and go get some breakfast for us, okay?” Fabric rustles and Sam hears Dean walk up to the door. “Whatever it is that you saw… you gotta remember it’s not real.”

Sam locks the door once he hears Dean go outside. And then he crawls over to the bathtub and turns the cold water on and sits there in his clothes under the spray. Lucifer sprawls on the floor across the room.

“I don’t think this is going well for you, Sammy.”

Yeah, no shit.

* * *

Sam actually sleeps in the bathtub that night. He can’t calm down around Dean, could barely stand to be in the car. Dean was walking on eggshells all day, definitely hurt but trying to work with Sam. So once Dean was asleep, Sam had grabbed a pillow and a blanket and locked himself in the bathroom, curled up uncomfortably in the tub.

What wakes him this time is shocking cold. The lights are on, there’s water filling the tub, and Castiel says “Hello Sam” and empties another bag of ice over his naked body. He gasps and tries to call for Dean, but Castiel is there, covering his mouth, holding him down as the freezing water inches up his body and the biting cold turns to bone deep pain to aching numbness. He’s shaking by the time Castiel turns the water off. Trying to push up is a mistake; Cas holds his head down and grabs another bag of ice from the floor with his other hand and dumps it in. And another. And another. He’s buried in ice, the water is across his lips and he’s a breath away from drowning when Cas finally stops.

“Stay.” He pulls his hand away and sits on the edge of the tub to watch. Sam lies there shivering, watching Cas. The ice melts slowly and Sam is shaking and having a hard time thinking. He tries sitting up again, hands as pale as the tub, and is shoved down beneath the surface. He grabs at Cas’ wrist, he’s less than an inch from air he can’t hold his breath like this, and Cas finally relents enough for Sam to gasp in air.

“Stay, Sam.”

Right. He has to stay. Cas said to stay down. He repeats that in his head; he keeps forgetting and moving and Cas glares at him and moves his hand over the tub and Sam stills; as much as he can with his teeth chattering and limbs convulsing.

“Stay. Have to stay,” he mumbles unconsciously. Cas smiles at that.

He has no track of how much time passes. He looks up once and Cas is gone, Lucifer sitting in his place playing with a bloody knife. Cas is back later with more ice, three bags that Sam barely feels.

The shaking slows down. Sam starts to feel warm again, drifting pleasantly in the tub. Then his body feels heavy again, settling down to the bottom as the water drains away.

“That’s it Sam, come here.” Cas is stretched out next to Sam in the small hollow of the tub, pulling him flush to his own naked form, and he’s warm he’s too warm but Sam can’t pull away. He lies curled against Cas’ chest, listening to his heart beating steadily as he slowly starts shivering again.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it.” Sam shakes his head dutifully, barely perceptible between the full body shakes that have started. Cas brushes a thumb over Sam’s cheek, then, “I know how to warm you up a bit more. Would you like that?”

Sam nods. Cas keeps petting him gently so Sam forces his jaw open. “Y-y-yes.”

“What’s the magic word, Sam?”

“Y-y-y-yes?” That’s what angels always want, isn't it?

“Didn’t Dean ever teach you the magic word?”

Oh. “P-please.”

Cas kisses his hair. “Good, Sam.” And then Cas is moving, rolling Sam onto his stomach and draping himself carefully across Sam’s back. He’s warmer, it seems, his touch soothing some of the aching in his body, and Sam craves the contact. “Do you want me in you?”

He doesn’t. Not that. But Cas’ hands have stilled and he’s not as warm somehow and everything hurts.

“Please,” he bites out. Cas murmurs happily and rearranges Sam’s again. He’s gentle this time, opening Sam up with his fingers before lining his cock up and sliding in with tiny jerks, half an inch deeper every few thrusts until he’s flush with Sam. And it is warmer, having Cas rocking into him, having his hands moving soothingly over his sides, having his mouth leaving open kisses along his spine. Cas is tender as Sam slowly stops shaking, as he warms to easy shivers and a world of pain that’s distant for right now, bright stabs and pricks that Cas soothes away with every touch.

“Better?” Sam nods. “Good.” Sam relaxes slowly under Cas, drifting in exhaustion; he whines from the sudden cold when Cas pulls out far enough to reposition Sam a little. The new angle is a little deeper, so it’s _ warmer, _and it jolts Sam against the still damp bottom of the tub, gives a taste of friction to the erection he hadn’t felt growing. It feels good. He wants to chase it but he’s made of jello and meltwater; he can barely twitch back into Cas or down against the porcelain. He whines softly, chatters another broken “please”.

“That’s it, just like that Sam,” Cas pants on top of him. Sam keeps trying, he doesn’t dare stop, not if Cas is happy. And he is happy, all the small noises he makes when he’s enjoying himself slipping out. Eventually he holds Sam down and goes harder, and somehow the angle is right so Sam comes right before Cas does. 

They lie there for an endless moment, tangled together like lovers, Cas kissing soft hazy praises into Sam’s skin, stroking his arms and face and sides, and Sam is pliant and somehow content. He did well. Cas said he did. Cas is pleased.

Cas is gone. Sam misses when he leaves; he’s there and then he’s not and Sam is shivering again under the fluorescents.

* * *

Warm. Warm hands. Panicked Dean calling his name. Pulling him up and carrying him across his shoulder into the dark.

Mattress. Blankets covering him, burying him alive, and then Cas is snugging up behind him again, and Sam remembers what to say.

“Pl-please.”

“It’s okay Sam I’m right here,” but it’s Dean not Cas, and Dean had… had… but that doesn’t matter. Dean can fuck him the same as the others if only he’ll let Sam be warm again.

“Please,” he rasps again. “Y-yes. Any-anything. You want.”

“I’ve got you Sam, shh.” Dean wraps tighter around his brother, tucking one leg over Sam’s to keep him from moving around.

“Cold.” Sam is shivering to break his bones. Why won’t Dean let him be warm?

“What the hell were you doing in the bathroom?”

What had he been doing? Cas and cold and ice and, and fear, scared Sam had been scared. Scared of Cas who had held him gently and scared of Dean who was holding him and leaching heat slowly into his body, and Sam didn’t know if they were different anymore.

“Cold.”

“I’m working on it big guy,” Dean says, rubbing his hand along Sam’s arm. It’s so slow. And it _ hurts, _every fucking thing hurts, all there is is cold and a life made of pain. “Jesus, how long were you in there?”

Time doesn’t exist in hell. It stretches and pulls and twists and it’s forever. It’s always forever. Time doesn’t matter. Just be a good toy and obey.

“Please,” he tries again. This time he knows he has to go further, he has to want it. Wraps his hand around Dean’s, draws it lower to where his dick hangs flaccid as he tilts his hips back into his brother’s groin. “Any-anything. You want. M say… say’n yes. Please.” Dean jerks his hand away like he’s been burned and Sam starts crying. “Please. Dean. M fr-freeezing.”

“God, Sammy…” Dean’s voice is cracking, tip toe shattering and Sam did something wrong and he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anymore. 

Dean holds him tight until the shivering stops, keeps him talking about nothing until it’s safe for Sam to let go and drift.

And then he lies with his face buried in Sam’s hair and weeps.

* * *

Dean hovers.

Sam lets him.

Lucifer is louder and crueler the longer Cas is gone and Sam can’t sleep after he warms up, shocked awake every time he drifts but too weak to get away. He doesn’t feel real anymore, nothing does. Maybe Dean is Cas still, maybe this is the next game, maybe he’s waiting for Sam to get on his knees and beg again, _ worship _ like he’s supposed to.

He looked so upset when Sam had tried kissing him though. So maybe he is Dean. Maybe Sam is breaking, the cracks in his soul crumbling apart and all that’s left is the spaces between, infinity swallowing up even a memory of light.

Dean orders takeout that Sam can’t swallow, throws up in the trash can because the grease tastes like every time Lucifer burns him alive. Water is all he can keep down.

Dean stays calm, talks him down each time he panics again, walks through Lucifer like he isn’t there (he’s not there). And Sam slowly stitches his thoughts together again. He had a bad episode. It wasn’t real. Dean wants to keep him safe and help him. Dean won’t hurt him. If it hurts him it isn’t his brother and it’s not real.

Lucifer is in the Cage. Sam is on earth.

On the third day Dean packs Sam into the car and drives, destination “not here”. Sam thinks he’s worried the hotel room was making him worse. And maybe… maybe he’s right. Dean would know better.

Day five, Sam is exhausted and Lucifer won’t let him sleep and Cas hasn’t come back. Dean finally collapsed, thinking Sam was in bed and going to stay there. He’s snoring gently, sprawled out with a hand almost held out towards Sam; like keeping him close will protect him somehow.

The thoughts are leaking out of Sam’s brain again though, every tiny stitch of sanity straining to let go. The hallucinations get worse, somehow, extra flickers of pure exhaustion at the corners of the world on top of the red-black light shining through the walls. He has to sleep. And Dean hid the drugs and the alcohol and the weapons.

Sam slips out the door, Lucifer echoing behind him, the shadow of massive wings everywhere, burning eyes and claws and Sam knows it’s right behind him, he can hear the rasping growl of Lucifer breathing. He walks faster. And faster. And then he’s running, pushing with energy he doesn’t have in a body that feels almost dead, pounding down dark alleys and around blind corners, escape the only thought that sticks with him.

He barely sees the people he passes, not sure if they’re real; but one guy sees him when he can’t go on, offers him a knockout, and Sam says yes. He expects he’s going to have to get on his knees to pay and that’s fine, it’s one more blowjob, but the guy just wants to help. He drifts off, mind slipping into the quiet and then he’s yanked back.

He runs. He doesn’t see the car.

* * *

Sam can’t hide the hallucinations in the ER, not when Lucifer appears in a medical gown with a butcher’s knife and a too-wide grin on his face.

Full blown psychotic episode, they say. Yeah, no shit, welcome to my life people.

They have sedatives that don’t work. A therapist he can’t be honest with. A tiny room painted in sickly yellow with a perch for the devil to wait until he can pick over Sam’s bones. It’s not the death he wanted, not a death he even considered, but they’d always know Sam was on borrowed time. Even without Cas, the real one, shattering Sam’s wall he was going to die like this. Sam would be relieved that it's over. He’s too tired.

It’s a surprise when Dean finds him first, but the doctor shows him in so he’s really Dean. And he’s Dean, he can’t give up, can’t let go. He’s off on a quest to save the only thing he has left and Sam lets him walk away. Says goodbye to his brother’s fading footsteps.

Six days left to live.

Four. Sam finds enough calm to help a scared girl, saving her the way he can’t save himself with the flick of a lighter. Lucifer is burned into his soul; the only way he’s being exorcised is to put Sam’s body on a pyre.

Three days.

The nurse is a demon, maybe. Maybe is enough but it’s too late to run. The electricity brings a blankness, wiping away everything.

And then Cas is there instead of the nurse, one demon fading into another, reaching out his hand to Sam and all Sam can do is watch and strain against the wrist cuffs. And then he’s awake. He feels… better, he feels less like a chew toy, but it’s still Cas standing there with Lucifer as his shadow. And then Dean walks in and Sam knows he’s mad.

He goes quietly, walking between his brother and his friend, walking down an endless hallway to his death. God let it be his death. Three days is eternity.

Their faces flicker back and forth; Dean is Cas is Lucifer, all of them watching him lying there on the bed, all of them hungry, and the only question Sam has is which one will be first.

It’s Cas-Lucifer-_ Cas _who sits down beside him and apologises for everything. Who reaches out to touch Sam and draws something out from Sam’s soul, a twisted hungry nothing that bites and clings, exchanging poison for light that burns and sears and heals.

Castiel is sitting next to Sam on a hospital bed, alive and breathing and horrified. Lucifer is gone, it’s just Dean standing there next to him, anxious as ever.

“Sam?”

“Dean? Wh- Cas?” How can Cas be alive, he died. He died a year ago he was dead Sam has known this whole time he was _ dead_. “Cas is that you?” 

Cas is scrambling away, pressing himself into the wall and looking at Sam in horror. The feeling is mutual; the past year filters into Sam’s mind without the fog of Hell over it all. Everything he thought Cas did, everything he thought Dean did… everything he lived, every black thought, everything he believed of them both.

“It’s him,” Dean says, his focus still on his brother with bare glances at Cas. “Found him in Colorado with no memory of anything.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure. How do you feel?”

How does Sam feel? Like an anvil just dropped on him, how’s that for starters. Like he’s a monster for ever believing his best friend could do any of that. Cas is crying, fucking hell, pushing himself into the furthest corner and shrinking to the ground like he expects to be hit, and it’s Sam that put that look on his face.

They exchange a look and make for the door, giving Cas the space he apparently needs. Once they cross the threshold he stills, staring blankly at nothing. “Dean what did he do?”

“He said something about shifting the damage.”

God. Oh God. “You _ let _ him?” Days filled with horror and nights that break you into pieces and now it’s going to happen to _ Cas_. Cas is the one who will wake up frozen to be violated again and again. And when Lucifer isn’t torture enough, Cas’ mind will provide his own well loved demons. With faint nausea, Sam wonders if Cas will see him, feel Sam’s hands at midnight.

Dean glares back at him, stubborn and angry and hurt all at once. “He chose to do it Sam. Same way he chose everything else, no one forced him into any of this.”

Sam stands there watching Cas for a long moment. Remembering every whispered nightmare of loneliness and fear, a life on the run. The best lies are based on a grain of truth. “Maybe not,” he says at last. “That doesn’t mean he had good choices. That doesn’t make this okay, Dean.”

“You’re alive and he won’t die from not sleeping.” Dean reaches out and pulls the door firmly shut. “I’d say that’s fan-fucking-tastic.”

* * *

The silence is deafening as Sam leaves the hospital. He’s still not easy with this, let alone Meg being the one to watch over Cas, but he knows that he couldn’t force himself to go back.

(It’s a lie. He said yes a hundred times, he’d break again and welcome every wretched defilement.)

It’s over. He’s out.

(The light is too bright and the world is still half a step away, Sam is drifting outside his skin. He doesn’t know what real means anymore.)

Dean drives off, and Sam stares out his own window lost in thought, trying to work through the problem instead of falling still and blank and waiting for orders that were never spoken. They have time to help Cas in a way that they didn’t have for Sam. They’ll figure something out.

There’s a man standing at the corner of the last building, tucked where Dean can’t see him. He gives Sam a little wave, ruffled hair and trenchcoat shifting in the breeze. Sam blinks and Cas is gone.

(Cas is frozen back in the hospital, motionless, and Sam knows what the flickering shadow of hell is doing to him under that mask; knows he can’t escape. Cas isn’t here.)

Reality is illusion, a crumbling ruin of airy nothing built on lies you believe. Dean will tell him what to do next.

**Author's Note:**

> *looks hopefully around for cookies*
> 
> Next part is back to Dean


End file.
